


Accidentally on Purpose

by libraryv



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Miscommunication, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22758196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv
Summary: Strike and Robin have a very different interpretation of the week leading up to Valentine's Day.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott & Cormoran Strike
Comments: 14
Kudos: 61
Collections: Love Letters: A Cormoran Strike Valentine's Day Fest





	Accidentally on Purpose

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [StrikeLoveLetters](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/StrikeLoveLetters) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Accidentally On Purpose

Robin Ellacott, eternal optimist, was not having a good week. 

On Monday, her Land Rover broke down. Again. It was becoming a worrying trend, and she had a nagging feeling that it was on its last lifeline. Tired and feeling vulnerable, she had called Cormoran. Silly thing to do, hardly necessary, and not at all useful in her current mission to squash all Strike-related feelings. 

Tuesday had brought about a hefty raise in rent on her small flat, and the resulting argument with her pervy-eyed landlord had left her feeling frustrated and bitter, causing Strike to keep a cautious distance at the office, although he kept bringing her cups of tea and placing them on her desk. Some rather deliciously tentative smiles had been served along with the tea, but Robin had hardened her heart; self preservation was key. Especially after she made a fool of herself on Monday evening.

On Wednesday, a case had gone a bit sideways. Strike had been extra reserved, and yes, Robin could even call it sulky. A key witness had withdrawn their cooperation, and it set them back almost to the beginning. Weeks of patient, undercover work gone to waste. Cormoran had shut himself in his office all afternoon; grumpy mutterings on the phone could be heard from behind the closed door. Then, he had left suddenly, striding past her desk and grabbing his coat, giving her a cursory wave and disappearing down the stairs. 

Her date the previous evening had been a disaster, but for that, she only blamed herself. Who booked an intimate dinner the night before Valentine’s Day? She had forgotten about it entirely (work had been so busy, lately) until the server had cheerfully recited their themed “Cupid’s Choice” menu. Her date had winked knowingly, put his sweaty hand on her knee, and Robin had ended the night with a bottle of Cupid’s favourite house red, alone in her suddenly unaffordable flat.

After a horribly long week and and an even longer day of tailing a client, Friday evening had finally arrived. It brought with it relentless rain and wind that turned her brolly inside out on her way to the Tube. She was on her way to meet yet another date, this one forced upon her, last-minute, by an Ilsa who wouldn’t accept Robin's refusal. It was bonkers to accept a blind date on Valentine’s, but then again, this week couldn’t really get any worse, could it?

Robin glanced at her watch. She was late. They had run out of tea and a few other necessities at the office, and it had taken longer than anticipated to pick them up; the local store was overrun with people buying chocolates and cards.

And, her favourite cream-coloured blouse had just been doused with a generous splash of coffee. Robin watched the tan liquid bleed slowly across the fabric and fought a wild desire to burst out laughing.

“I’m so sorry!” repeated the girl beside her. She fished in her purse and grabbed a few tissues, holding them out to Robin, red-faced and clearly embarrassed. 

“I can pay for your blouse to be cleaned, I-”

“Don’t be silly, it was an honest mistake.” Robin said kindly, although she grabbed the tissues from the girl’s hand a bit roughly. She’d have to change, now. She supposed she could quickly stop by the office. She had a spare blouse there, and it was closer than her flat. 

She smiled away the girl’s profusive apologies, and got off at the next stop, trying to muster enthusiasm for what Ilsa had assured her was a “your type, guaranteed,” kind of night. 

Robin pictured her cozy little flat, the sofa beckoning warmly in her mind’s eye. No. No, it was just a quick stop at the office, a quick change, and then who knew, maybe a truly good date at last.

____________________________________________________________________________

Cormoran Strike, stubborn realist, was having a particularly good week.

Robin had called him late Monday night, car trouble in Westminster, and Strike had gone out to keep her company while she waited for a tow. She was entirely capable of handling things, but it had been nice to be the one she rang. Even nicer to share a pint in the pub after. Strike had allowed himself to feel as if they were an impromptu date.

Especially when, at the end of the evening, she had reached up and pressed a quick kiss to his jaw, with a whispered, “thanks, Cormoran.” His cheek tingled the rest of the night, and he had caught a glimpse of his reflection in the tube’s window, grinning away rather stupidly.

Tuesday had brought his usually cheerful partner banging into the office and pounding mercilessly away on the keyboard. He overheard her telling Ilsa on the phone about her rent being raised. A few choice words about the landlord had followed, and Strike had brought Robin a cup of tea. This act had won him such a grateful look that he had proceeded to run through the entirety of their tea supply in one afternoon. 

Two days ago, a witness had balked. Ilsa, who had been helping with the legal side of things, had been reassuringly pragmatic on the phone. 

“Not to worry. Second thoughts are fairly routine at this stage. I can convince him to come back. I - I want to talk to you about something else, actually.”

Strike was no stranger to her particular tone to her voice.

“‘Something else’ still code for “Robin,” is it?”

“She’s going on another date tomorrow night, and you said that you were thinking about telling her how you feel soon, so I-”

“You’re quite right, and I’m going to. On Friday.”

“I really think you should - pardon? You’re - you’re telling Robin?”

Strike grinned, waiting. 

“You’re actually going to tell her?”

“Yeah. Enough already, I figure.”

Strike held his mobile away from his ear and waited out a few delighted squeals.

“Corm! What are you going to say?”

“I don’t know. Take her out to the Tottenham, sit her down, and-”

“No, you can’t do it like that! It’s Valentine’s on Friday! It’s Robin!”

“Exactly. I don’t do fuss and nonsense, and I feel the same way about her whether it’s Valentine’s or next Tuesday.” 

“Cormoran Strike! I’m coming out to meet you and we’re going to come up with a plan! I’m on my way right now. Don’t say a word to Robin! Just leave the office and meet me.”

Strike sighed.

“I suppose I could fancy it up a bit. Maybe a rose or something?”

“Just meet me at the Tottenham in thirty!”

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Strike was cursing loudly into the empty office. Why had he listened to Ilsa? His whole Friday had run late, and his last client had taken forever to leave. If he had gone with his original plan, he and Robin would both be sitting at the Tottenham by now, drinks in hand, feelings out in the open.

Instead, he had been delayed by the need to change for the high-end restaurant. Then, he had braved the torrential downpour to buy a ludicrously expensive bouquet, which was now lying in a sodden lump on his desk. Finally ready, in his own rush to get out the door, he had proceeded to bang his knee on the edge of his desk. 

It was during a long string of calling the desk various poisonous names that the door opened, revealing a slightly harried-looking Robin, weighed down by tote bags. 

They stared at each other.

Strike recovered first, lurching up and limping towards her. 

“Here, let me help-”

“No, it’s fine, I’ve just got to-”

He had got as far as taking the bags from her, and Robin had finally shaken her wet coat off, when there was a loud, buzzing surge, and the lights promptly went out.

Strike sighed, running a hand down his stubble and grinning down at her in the darkness.

“I’ll get the candles.”

Robin watched as he rummaged in his desk drawer and brought out two candles. He set them both on his desk. There was a flare of a match, and the quick smell of powder as two tiny flames came to life, casting a halo of light in the dark office. 

The lump on the desk, now clarified, resolved into a bouquet of roses. Robin was suddenly aware that he was wearing a smart blazer.

She nodded, biting her lip as realization dawned. Strike’s grin was illuminated by the flickering candles. 

“Happy Valentine’s, Ellacott.”

He came towards her, his expression soft. Rain lashed against the windows.

“ _You’re_ my date,” she said, her voice wavering. 

He nodded, and reached a hand up to scratch sheepishly at the back of his neck. 

“I’m late.” 

Robin laughed weakly.

“So am I.”

He was standing in front of her, and his large palm found hers, warm and dry.

She couldn’t think; could barely process what was happening.

“I - I didn’t think,” she managed.

“Unusual,” he said, smiling.

She looked down at her feet, and tried again.

“This is - this is unexpected.” She could feel him looking at her. She took a breath. “But in the best way.”

She looked up then, and decided to go for it.

“The things you make me feel, Cormoran. The way you’ve always made me feel. What you do to me, I-”

She ran out of words, and he gave her a dazzling smile. 

“Haven’t you figured it out, Robin?” he whispered, his eyes dark pools in the dim light. He leaned forward, his next words a rough voice into her hair. 

“It’s all about what you do to me.” 

He bent his head down and kissed her again. Her hands came up, grabbing at the soft unruly curls of his hair, opening her mouth to his. She felt him smile against her lips before his tongue stroked into her mouth. 

The intimacy of it, the realness of it, was effervescent perfection. It sparked down her spine right down to her centre. Kissing Cormoran Strike was a heady, masculine overload of sensation: his tongue echoing the slight rocking of his hips, his lips gentle and firm, the delicious scratch of stubble. She could feel the solid breadth of his chest and his soft stomach warm against hers, she could taste mint and lingering smoke. 

She arched into him, her hands grabbing at the soft, unruly curls at her fingertips, happy to drown in this kiss, happy to drown in this moment, happy to drown in him, forever. He made a low, desperate-sounding noise deep in this throat, and his large hands came down and gripped her hips. 

They broke apart, and he pressed a series of two or three hot, delicately scratchy kisses to her neck.  
“You smell like coffee and vanilla,” he murmured. 

She laughed, a breathless sound cut short as his hand cupped her breast.

“I came here to change.” She gasped, and pleasure streaked through her as his fingers found her nipple, teasing through her bra.

“You know, for our -” she gasped, “- for our date.”

His kisses climbed back up her neck, then he stopped and pulled back.

“I think we’re going to miss our dinner.”

Robin looked into his eyes, seeing desire and something else, something deeper. It made her bold enough to say,

“We’ve got a whole future of dinners ahead of us.”

The corner of his mouth pulled into a smile, and he raised an eyebrow. 

“That sounds good to me.”

He bent his head to hers and kissed her again, lingering until they were both breathless. He grinned.

“As for tonight: let’s skip right to dessert.”


End file.
